Numbers
by charissadee
Summary: Eliot spencer is a monster. And he is the first to know. Headcanon of the worst thing Eliot Spencer ever did. I do not own Leverage. Please review.


No one knows everything I've done. No one. Every night when I lay may head down on the pillow, their faces are the first things I see when I shut my eyes. I see the look of fear and defeat in each of their eyes before I snap their necks. I hear the blood curdling screams and the pleading voices, begging me to spare them. I see the looks on their children's face when they find out their daddy was killed. Brutally killed. And no one knows who did it.

When I shut my eyes, I think of why I did it. I go through the list, and put the reason with the face. Number Thirty-One: wrong place, wrong time. I had to get to the building, and get the vase, if I wanted a pay day. I took out all the body guards, left 'em out cold, but they'd wake up before the morning. But this guy, dead-set on doing the right thing, (it was his first night on the job) decided he could be the hero of this story. I was broke, and the pay with this job was worth anything at the moment. The guy looked at me, with a mask of courage disguising his nearly paralyzing fear, and hollered "STOP!" I laughed at him. He came at me, and before I knew it, I had him in a choke hold. When I let go, his pulse vanished. I left him there and finished my job.

Number Twenty-Six: business man. He rubbed my boss the wrong way, I still don't know why. Anyway, I was sent to go out and kill him, for whatever reason. I liked the work, so I agreed. I waited for the guy on the street his house was on. The same street his wife and kids were comfortably asleep on. When his car pulled up to mine, I asked him to help me with some car troubles. He said he had to head home, it was his wife's birthday. I wouldn't take it. I bugged him 'til he agreed. As soon as he opened the hood to look inside, I squeezed his neck 'til he fell limp over my car. I took his keys and drove off in his car. A Benz. I wasn't about to leave it on the road. His wife's birthday present rode by my side. One day, I went to his grave site. I put the present, still wrapped on the grave. I hope she found it. She deserves to know he thought about her before he died.

Number Thirty: Ass hole jumped me first. I told him if he cooperated he'd be fine. He tried to fight me. I fought back. Too hard.

Number One: He killed my best friend. He starved him. He beat him. He tortured him every way imaginable. I wanted him to die as painfully as Quinn did. I beat him until my knuckles were bleeding. I beat him until he was coughing up blood. I beat him until he died. And I don't regret it. Not one bit. I liked it. I still find some sense of accomplishment when I think of his wimpy screams. He is probably rotting in hell right now, and I am more than okay with that.

The thing is, if anyone tries to hurt me, I can't guarantee they won't be makin' it onto the list as Number Fifty-Two. Yeah. I've killed fifty-one people. Nobody knows that but me. No one ever will. You see, people would think I'm some sort of monster. Truth is, I am.

Number Forty: she was seven. Her mother screamed as I aimed the gun at her head. She was the first in the family to go. I remember the look she gave me as the bullet whirled through the air, headin' straight for her temple. She looked curious. She didn't know what was happening, and I am glad for that. After I watched her fall to the ground, and the blood drip down her face, I shot aimlessly. I almost felt better knowing that the family wouldn't have to live with the pain of losing their little girl. After that, I never used a gun again.

Somehow, I still kill. I am still the worlds best hitter. I still take jobs that take the lives of human beings. I don't kill if I don't have to. I don't like it. I'm not some psycho who gets a rush from seeing the blood. Nope. Hell, the blood doesn't even phase me. I'm not crazy. I'm numb. I don't feel it anymore. It's a living. It's something I am good at. Hell yeah, I love fighting. I have for as long as I can remember. I love the money, it's certainly enough to live comfortably. I don't miss my life before this.

I can still live with myself. Somehow. Sometimes. Sometimes I can't sleep. Because sometimes, I don't know my own strength. And sometimes, it takes innocent lives.

Nobody will ever know that.


End file.
